Lindsay Lohan

Listen, Lohan.

I know you're distraught over our falling out -- although I must remind you that IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT -- but wearing a pillowcase out and about isn't going to help anyone.

Lindsay Lohan couldn't hide her nerves. She knew the leggings and the beretmulke would incite one of Jessica's legendary rages on GFY. She suspected it might lead to a strongly worded document suggesting Lohan might be the bunion on the mangled, unwashed foot of the Mayor of Fugtown. She knew it might end with Jessica, broken-hearted and further betrayed, furiously purchasing copies of Mean Girls only to stomp on them, light them on fire, smoke some summer sausage over the flame, then hurl the porky pieces at the Just My Luck billboards while screaming a string of obscenities so artfully fury-laden that even Suge Knight might sit up and say, "Excuse me, but you really ought to watch your language, young lady."

But, alas, Lindsay's style train was long gone from the station, in that she had already left her pants at Brett Ratner's Stavros Niarchos's Adam Levine's Haley Joel Osment's Bill O'Reilly's Brody Jenner's house; the best she could do at this point to placate Jessica and save the life of many a bulging blood vessel was to beef up the red in her hair -- victory in our time! -- and borrow one of Meryl's caftans, repurposing it into a baggy 80s-style tunic shirt the fugliness of which she prayed La Streep's clout would obscure.

Sadly for Li-Lo, a righteous fug rage quells for no legend; the shameless Streep salvo missed its mark, and the fugtastic glow of her awful French boho princess ensemble burns undimmed. Naturally, Jessica was displeased. But I bring you word that we sedated her mid-uproar and she is now resting comfortably and in possession of her whole sanity.

No summer sausage has been harmed.

So THAT'S how it's gonna be, eh, Lindsay?

A nightgown over leggings -- LEGGINGS! WHY DON'T YOU JUST STAB ME? -- accessorized with a Hefty bag? FINE. FINE. If this is what you want, then FINE It's OVER. I LOVED you. I DEFENDED you. I MADE YOU MY AIM ICON, FOR PETE'S SAKE. And this is how you decide to end it? Well, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW. Because MY HEART is BROKEN.

PS: The shoes are still good.

PPS: My endorsement of your shoes DOES NOT mean I am NOT breaking up with you, because I AM.  But let's all remember WHY I am. BECAUSE YOU PUSHED ME TO IT.  It's all YOUR FAULT. I tried to make this work. I tried to COMMUNICATE. But you just wouldn't listen.

Lindsay is sort of doing that thing to me that boys do, you know, when they want to break up with you but they don't really want to have to actually break up with you, so they act all weird to sort of goad you into breaking up with THEM. Like, okay, first of all, she's dating Brett Ratner? Linds. Honey. Look, I'm sure he's sort of fun and amusing, but it just doesn't look good for you to be dating him, can't you see that? Why don't you date someone more age appropriate? What about, like...say, Topher Grace? He's a good actor, he's handsome, he's never photographed out and about all drunk and disorderly, he's never slept with Paris Hilton -- as far as we know -- he seems to come from a very stable family, and I'm sure he can read.  Doesn't that sound nice? Come on! Don't you want to be in a stable relationship, where you're not ENDLESSLY replaying your daddy issues? No? Okay, fine.

Then let's talk about the outfits.

The thing about this outfit is that almost -- I said almost -- every individual piece of it is fine. Working from the bottom up:

1. the shoes? Sweet God, those are cute.
2. those cropped little jeans? Cute!
3. a white tee? Who can find fault with a white tee. Not me!
4. the vest...made of....ties? Well....maybe it's an homage to Kelly Clarkson's Skirt of Ties in From Justin to Kelly.  Comedy gold!
5. the bag? Terribly chic!
6. the hat....okay, the hat you stole from Fez. Don't lie.
7. that f'ing pashmina with those IDIOTIC ARMWARMERS make me want to KILL SOMEONE, but at least they're a pretty color, right? And, um, you're kinda coordinated, right? So that's good.

But together? All this together? It's so Crazy Destitute Nutjob With Great Shoes.  THAT'S NOT A COMPLIMENT. Even the paparazzo behind you is all, "girl. PLEASE."

So I have a friend at my office -- my real office, not GFY headquarters, where "a friend" would mean, "Heather" -- who is obsessed with my obsession with Lindsay Lohan. The fact that I still have a powerful and unexplainable love for all things Lohan aggravates her in a powerful way that some might classify as excessive, nay, even dangerous. She regularly harasses me about this love, and attempts to shame me into abandoning it. But I have held on to the love! I have not forgotten the Lindsay of Mean Girls, or The Parent Trap or Freaky Friday! I know that Lindsay! I love that Lindsay!

But this Lindsay? Is getting a little harder to take:

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DEFEND THIS? Her dress is made entirely of unbleached organic paper towels! I AM JUST ONE WOMAN.

Lindsay. I still love you. But my love can not thrive in this kind of environment. You have GOT to give me something to work with. This relationship is a two-way street, and the metaphorical car representing your end of the bargain is stalled! Or, more accurately, you have probably crashed it into a storefront.

Now look what you made me do. I made a mean joke about your driving. God. Our relationship is just unraveling in front of me, and you are doing NOTHING to re-ravel it, or whatever it is you do to fix something that's all unraveled.

Please work with me. I don't want to give up on us. But you're making it so very hard to hold on.

FADE IN:

SHARON STONE: And lemme tell you ANOTHER THING, Leslie!

LINDSAY LOHAN: Lindsay.

SHARON STONE: That's what I SAID. Lemme tell you ANOTHER THING, LESLIE. What you NEED to DO is land a role where you show the world YOUR COOTER. But you show it in a REAL CLASSY WHITE OUTFIT. REAL classy. So there's like a....DISPARITY betweeen the COOTER and your OUTFIT. WHAT'S WRONG?

LINDSAY LOHAN:  You're...just saying the word "cooter" really loud.

SHARON STONE: SORRY. Okay, SO THEN you spend the next five years dressing REALLY GOOD.  Like, CLASSY and GLAMOUROUS.  People are like, "sure, we all saw her cooter, but MAN, can she WORK A TURTLENECK." HEY, is that the guy with the CHICKEN SATAY?

LINDSAY LOHAN: I...don't know. Um, it's been great talking to --

SHARON STONE: SO THEN people think you're an okay actress and BEAUTIFUL and then SCORCESE puts you in a MOVIE and you get a GOLDEN GLOBE and then YOU MARRY A GUY and take a lot of TIME OFF and then your HUSBAND gets his FOOT EATEN OFF by a DRAGON at the ZOO and then you have a BRAIN SOMETHING and then more stuff happens and THEN you realize NO ONE IS HIRING YOU ANYMORE and so THEN you decide to -- WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?

LINDSAY LOHAN: You're just...it's...um. I'm...nothing. I really should go say hello to Meryl --

SHARON STONE: FUCK MERYL STREEP I'M TELLING YOU THINGS. So THEN you decide to make a REALLY PORNY SEQUEL to the movie where you show your cooter LIKE I MEAN REALLY PORNY and THEN you show up at the OSCARS in a dress that shows your NIPPLES and HAS UGLY PURPLE APPLIQUES OF BUTTERFLIES and you do your make-up using the FREE SAMPLES AT RITE AID with your eyes CLOSED. And then --

LINDSAY LOHAN: Oh god.

SHARON STONE: THEN you do your HAIR in a WIND TUNNEL! And then everyone WONDERS what the hell happened to you. ISN'T THAT A GREAT PLAN FOR YOUR CAREER?

LINDSAY LOHAN: [polite laughter] I really need to go now. But it's been great talking to you.

SHARON STONE: I used to be YOUNG LIKE YOU. CALL ME!

Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself, Skeletor. You're lucky we decided not to run the photo where your right breast is full-on exposed because the dress is tenting itself around your bony, awkwardly posed frame.

Remember when we gave you credit for looking better and healthier? We rescind that. The other day, we saw a guy use one of your arms to pick his teeth after a meal. That was the closest you've likely been to food in six weeks. Put things -- other than boy meat, please -- in your MOUTH, honey, not in the opening just to the north.

There are SO MANY THINGS I love about this photo:

1. Lindsay's shoes
2. Lindsay's hair color
3. Lindsay's pedicure
4. Lindsay in general. As regular readers know, I love for reasons even I can not explain, but which I expect have to do with: her hair in Mean Girls; her adorable ass-shaking handshake routine with the butler in The Parent Trap; the hilariously mean text messages she sent to Paris Hilton about Jessica Simpson that were revealed during those delicious three weeks last year when we all got to read everything in Paris's Sidekick; and how psychotic she got when she and Wilmer broke up -- mostly because I think we've all felt exactly that psychotic about a break-up, you know, on the inside, but never had the wherewithal to actually just go ahead and expose the psychosis to the entire world.
5. Even Lindsay's dress, which looks better when photographed from the front, and which I suspect is more subtly colorful in person.
6. Meryl's boots. Nice Louboutins, Mere!
7. The expression on Meryl's face, in that she appears to be warning Lindsay about us specifically
8. The idea that maybe Meryl is going to take Lindsay under her wing and whip La Lohan into shape.  Wouldn't that be an exciting development? I feel like Meryl wouldn't let Lindsay run all over town drinking and sleeping with inappropriately old men and accidentally running things over with her car. Meryl would have Lindsay studying, like, Strindberg, and practicing accents alone in her room until late in the night.  And then Lindsay would start crying and call her and be like, "Meryl, this is so hard," and Meryl would be all kind, but very firm, like, "I don't want to hear your whining, Lindsay," and then Lindsay could realize her full potential and I wouldn't have to apologize for liking her anymore.
9. Meryl in general -- I mean, come on. We're heartless beeyotches here, but she's Meryl F'in Streep. I have some respect, you know. 

Please notice, however, the one thing missing from this list: Meryl's dress. Oh, Meryl. Meryl, Meryl, Meryl. Did you know that the more I type "Meryl," the less it looks like an actual word? I'm concerned that I'm having that reaction because your kooky, kooky dress has triggered some kind of  seizure in my brain.

Prithee, Mistress Lohan,  whither art thou tights?

Dost thou not agree that when a maiden taketh on doublet -- howsoever bare -- and breeches and disguiseth herself as a lad, in the manner of such good works by Sir William Shakespeare as As You Like It or Twelfth Night, the maiden needth likewise spare a thought to the hairlessness of her legs which will surely give away her disguise, revealing her to be a lady fair and not a brutish hairy man, and puteth on some hose? And indeed, Mistress Lohan, while thy lack of tights will surely destroy the historical accuracy of thine perplexing disguise of Shakespearean pantaloons, thou shouldst be aware as well that in this, the first month of the year, the month of the pagan lord Janus, thy lack of hose shall surely also lead thee downst the path to that most dreaded of afflictions, "hypothermia," and surely thereafter to thy most vile enemy, "exhaustion." Thou are indeed aware that when thou last fought "exhaustion," thou emergest from Ceders Sinai in a form both skeletal and creepy. I pray, Mistress Lohan, if thou insist on wrapping thyself in the robes of thine Shakespearean ancestors, prithee, give a precious thought to thine health! None of us art equipped, either in heart, brain, or humours, to deal with yet another of thy stints in the infirmary. Not again.  No, not e'er again.

Lindsay Morgan Lohan! What are you wearing?

The pants are too long, yes, but those are the least of my concerns.  What is going on with that jumper thingie? It's so, "Hello, my name is Lindsay, welcome to Acapulco! I'll be your waitress tonight! Our drink specials are the Mega Mango Margarita and two tequila shooters for two dollars! Can I interest you ladies in some mini chimichanga appetizers?"

What I'm saying is, professionally speaking, unless you actively want to try out the age-old stereotype of waiting tables while waiting on your next acting gig, maybe you should eighty-six the apron.